


Scenes From Paris

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Fables - Willingham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-20
Updated: 2006-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 09:15:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1643420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bigby and Snow in Paris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scenes From Paris

**Author's Note:**

> Written for thepiratequeen

 

 

"Paris," she said, so they went.

*

Paris stank like any other city. There were superficial differences, of course; there were always differences. But beneath the scents particular to Paris and France lay the unchanging stench of humanity: sweat, flesh, shit and gas, hidden again by another layer of human waste: exhaust, chemicals, perfume and food. He hated it and he hated Paris, so he smoked an extra cigarette for every two as his own personal fuck you to the city.

Snow, though: she loved it. Under the stink of the city and her own favored perfumes, he could smell the pleasure on her, mingled with the unique bittersweet scent he recognized as just Snow. She loved the food. She loved the lights. She loved the clothes and she loved the music and she loved him. All day he walked with the smell of her love surrounding him. Paris almost seemed bearable for it.

At night, when she kissed him, he could nearly taste it.

*

They ate at a small restaurant near the water late one evening, then walked some distance along the river's edge before hailing a cab that would take them back to their hotel. Snow smiled at him when he helped her into the backseat. "How surprisingly gentlemanly of you," she said, tucking her skirts in close to her legs.

He managed a decent half-mocking bow, one hand still clutching the roof of the car. "You know me," he said, ducking into the backseat as well. "Man's best friend."

Snow laughed at that, turning to him as he gave the address to the driver. "What an accurate summary of your character," she said.

"I'm clever, too," he told her.

The passing streetlamps threw her face into a strange, fleeting mix of shadow and light; when she turned from him to look out the window, she looked as though she were something from a dream, beautiful and unearthly and never meant to last.

He took her hand and kissed the knuckles, and said nothing when she gave him a questioning little smile, a sweet, momentary flash in the dark.

*

At night the smell of her was overpowering. He buried his face in her hair, her throat, the warmth between her legs, and he could not think to leave her.

*

In the elevator once, she cupped his face in her hands and pressed a lingering kiss to his check, then the other, before finally she kissed him properly. A small ding! sounded after a handful of moments had passed thusly. Snow pulled back and smiled, a little edge at the corners of her mouth.

"Race you," she said.

The doors opened. He followed her to the room.

*

On the sixth night, she called the farm. Bigby was in the shower by then, and alone in the quiet of the honeymoon suite, so sudden compared to the noise and hustle of their day on the streets, Snow felt acutely homesick in a way she hadn't felt for -- Lord, centuries. She wouldn't call the farm. She would. She stared at the bedside phone for a minute or two, then picked it up and dialed the front desk.

"Oh my God!" was the first thing Rose said. "Why are you talking to me? Isn't Bigby there with you? What are you doing out of bed?"

"I don't know what you're trying to imply," Snow said.

"Oh, please," said Rose. "Don't even start."

They finished their pleasantries and compared days, at which point the conversation dovetailed into an exceedingly detailed interrogation of Snow's honeymoon thus far.

"As fascinating as this must be for you," said Snow, pinching her nose, "and as humiliating as it is for me, I hope you won't mind if I ask to speak to my children."

"I'll get you next time, Gadget," Rose promised, but she passed the phone on to Darien without much delay.

"Hi, Mom!" he shouted. "Can you hear me?"

Snow had nursed a small headache throughout the day, from a combination of too little sleep and too much noise, and now it flared into a sharp, blinding point near her temple. She pressed a finger to the spot and waited for the pain to fade. "Yes," she said, after a moment. Her hand fell to her lap. "You don't need to shout, dear. I can hear you. Yes, I miss you, too. I love you, too. Have you been doing your chores?"

A faint, tinny echo piggybacked his answers. Homework? Yes, he did it. And his siblings? Yes, they did their stuff, too, except for Winter, and she didn't want to talk about it. Winter didn't want to talk about anything. Yes, they were listening to Auntie Rose and Boy Blue. Yes, he was helping out around the farm. No, he hadn't teased Mister Sunflower at all, he promised. Well, all right, he did, but it was only for a little bit and Auntie Rose made him apologize right away.

"Oh!" he said. "And Ambrose ate the rest of the cake and Blossom didn't get any. Did you buy us any presents? I want an airplane."

"I won't bring home a thing, you ruffian," she told him. "Maybe a book." Darien made a displeased noise, expressing exactly how exciting he found that prospect.

The shower had stopped some minutes back; now the bathroom door opened. Bigby stepped out in a towel, freshly shaven and already beginning to show shadow on his checks. Snow waggled her fingers at him, then turned her attention back to the phone.

"Let me talk to Winter," she said to Darien. "But don't you run off! Your father will want to talk to you."

Darien said something, but it was lost in the scuffle as he made off with the phone. Snow watched her reflection in the glass lining the balcony; Bigby moved like a ghost across the surface, dragging a shirt on, trousers, nearly pale against the night beyond the window. A little light came on in the window as he lit a cigarette.

He was, she thought, dripping on the carpet. She smiled.

"Okay!" Darien shouted again. Snow closed her eyes. "Here she is! Winter, it's Mom."

A long quiet filled the line. Then Winter said, very softly, "Hi, Mommy."

"Hello, sweetie," she said. "Are you all right?"

There was another pause. "Uh-huh," said Winter.

"Really," said Snow. "Darien says you haven't finished your homework. Is that true?"

Winter whispered, little more than a dull murmur against the static, and on the other side of the bed, as he came to sit beside her, Bigby asked, "Which one is it?"

Snow waved him off. "Honey, you need to speak up. I can't hear you."

"I miss you," she said, louder, but only slightly. Winter was quiet for a moment. "Can I talk to Daddy?" she asked.

"Of course, honey," said Snow, then covering the mouthpiece, she told Bigby, "Your daughter would like to speak with you."

"Which one?" he said dryly.

"Winter," she said, then passed him the phone.

"Hey, cub," he said. "Yeah, it's me."

His hair was still wet and when he moved to lie beside her, he left damp spots on the bedspread. He was warm, though, and she was tired, so she rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.

"Subtraction?" said Bigby. "Uh-huh. Well, we can give it a shot, but I'm not making any promises."

*

On the eighth day, Snow said, "Home."

 


End file.
